poison hearts : voldemort meets his father
by MelissaLianne
Summary: oneshot.


**A/N:** We know Voldemort killed his father, but we've never really thought about what happened inbetween and after. Oneshot, because I'm doing coursework too but I need a break from it!

_**Without the mask  
Where will you hide?  
Can't find yourself  
Lost in your lies**_  
_Everybody's Fool - Evanescence  
_  
"Cause your presence still lingers here-  
And it won't leave me alone"  
( Voldemort's memory ; oneshot. )

x x x

Well, he'd dealt with Morfin easily enough. The ring he had accquired was sat comfortably in the palm of his hand, it's light reflecting from the strong sun blaring down onto him. It was a hotter day than he had intended it to be, but that would not matter. So, his father was a muggle. A disgusting muggle. Morfin was right - in a way - his mother _was_ a blood traitor. But she was most certainly not a little 'slut', and nor did she deserve his father abandoning them both. As he trudged along the gravel-path leading to Riddle House, a sense of curiousity imprisoned any stray thoughts. Perhaps his father would not be a dissapointment ... he could only hope.

Hope was such a feeble emotion at times.

He paused at the rust-covered gate for a moment, and looked towards the front of the house. The lights were on in the two downstairs rooms, and he could vaguely see a silouhette dance across the golden light. The garden in front of the house did not appear to be well kept - weeds and deceased plants were strewn everywere, giving off a dark impression. The building itself was old by nature; the slates on the dark roof had begun to mould, and quite a few were missing. He opened the gate, ignoring the creak it emitted around the almost silent area, and he slowly made his way up to the wooden door. He sounded the rusty knocker twice, and waited patiently.

The door swung open, and an elderly woman surveyed Voldemort. "Who are you, then? I haven't got all day."  
"My name is of little importance to you," he stated coldly, "but I wish to meet with Tom Riddle."  
The woman clicked her tongue, her greying-hair sliding out of a messy bun. "We are just about to have dinner ... would you care to join us?"  
Voldemort's eyebrows were raised doubtfully, but the aroma of delicious food was tempting. He hadn't eaten properly in months. "Yes, alright," he agreed in a quiet voice. The woman stepped aside and let Voldemort through. He stared with wonder at the unmoving portraits around the house, all staring at him with beady, unblinking eyes. The wallpaper was peeling, he noticed, as the elderly woman guided him along through the narrow hallway, and to the dining room. "I hope you don't mind Stew," the old woman directed at Voldemort, "We were going to have something else but Tom has been feeling a bit off colour recently."  
"I'm sorry to hear that," replied Voldemort in an indefinable tone, "Is he unwell?"  
She clicked her tongue again, and glanced around. "Not exactly, no. Women troubles."  
Voldemort's eyes flashed. "Oh?"  
"Yes, although it has been over for a good time - and good riddance. That girl came from a pitiful family. I never really understood why my Tom took to her, I was dead against it of course," she began to lay out servings into bowls. "Have a seat, dear."  
He sat down, and continued to stare at her enquiringly until she continued.  
"So, he left her?" Voldemort said casually, as she gave him extra Stew.  
"Oh yes, and about time too. She came from a very strange background."  
"And by strange you mean..."  
She glanced around once more to check no one was listening. "Well, our Tom seems to think she was - a witch!" She looked very embarrased and took a seat, before calling her husband and son to join them.

Her husband entered first, and set next to his wife, and took a large mouthful of Stew before noticing Voldemort. "Who are you?"  
Voldemort merely smiled. "You'll find out soon enough," he told them in an unreadable tone of voice.  
"Tom - we've got a visitor - come down from your room!"  
For such a poorly-kept house, the Riddles didn't let this stop them from dressing up in their finest dinner wear. "So, how old are you, then?"  
"I'll be seventeen soon," replied Voldemort carelessly.  
The sound of footsteps ended any other questions as his father entered the room. They were strikingly similiar in comparison; their height was almost accurate, and his father's hair was naturally neat, just like his. His father stopped dead when he noticed his double in smaller form, sitting calmly at the table.  
"Hello," said Voldemort in a tone that mocked politeness.

His father's face was ashen white.

"Sit, Tom," said the elderly lady worriedly, reaching out a helping hand towards her son. He ignored it, but sat opposite Voldemort, his eyes blaring.  
"Who are you?" he asked abruptly, ignoring his piping hot dinner in front of him, waiting to be nourished. His voice was deep and carefully controlled, but it was obvious to anybody in the room he was attempting to keep his anger at a steady level.

Voldemort smiled, and helped himself to some Stew. An uneasy silence had spread across the room.

"Don't ignore me!" hissed his father, in the same commanding tone Voldemort often issued out himself. He raised an eyebrow at his father's anger, but didn't acknowledge him.  
"I said-" his father was on his feet now, his hands turning into fists.  
"Tom - sit down!" squealed his mother, standing on her own feet and trying to drag him back to his seat.  
"I believe now is the time to explain," said Voldemort silkily.  
"Yeah - it bloody well is!" snapped his father.

Slowly, Voldemort drew out his wand, and laughed pitilessly at the three shocked expressions that now faced him.

He pointed his wand at his grandmother. "AVADA KEDAVRA!"  
She toppled backwards and fell as if she were a broken puppet, crashing horribly on the dirty green carpet. Voldemort retracted his footsteps a little before letting green light flood through his grandfathers eyes, as he fell next to his wife, no longer breathing.

Voldemort considered his father, who was standing there, his eyes blazing, but emitting a complete lack of fear.

"So, you are her son," he said tonelessly.  
"Yes," hissed Voldemort, approaching his father. "And you abandoned us. Are you sorry?"

His father eyed the wand in Voldemort's hand apphrensively. He did not seem bothered by his parents passing. "I cannot say I am."

"Are you sure," hissed Voldemort, "That you do not want to change that opinion?"  
"Quite sure," replied his father calmly.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

Finally, he had done his mother some justice.

**A/N:** Review away!


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